


While My Guitar Gently Weeps

by In a Fishbowl (sameuspegasus)



Series: Waiting on a Friend [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Claustrophobia, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Niall/music, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Solo Artist Harry, Solo Artist Niall, guitarist niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 18:06:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameuspegasus/pseuds/In%20a%20Fishbowl
Summary: Niall loves being the guitarist for ex-boyband member turned superstar solo artist Harry Styles. Maybe he even loves Harry. But what if he could make it on his own?





	While My Guitar Gently Weeps

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I don't know any of the people in this fic.

 “What the fuck, Niall?” Harry drops the magazine on the table in front of Niall. Niall’s fingers stumble on the strings for a moment but he carries on, because playing guitar is what he does in times of stress. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment in Harry’s face. The anger.

“Just fire me, Harry,” Niall mumbles. He deserves it. He’s been working on an apology song all morning even though he knows it won’t fix anything. He doesn’t even know how to get it to the right person.

For a moment, the quiet is only filled by the tune Niall is picking out on the acoustic in his hands. Harry says softly, “You’re not fired. But only because you’re my friend and you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. I know you’d never normally shout at a twelve-year-old.”

Niall looks up at him. “Friend?” He likes Harry. He really, really likes him.  But he’s still Harry’s employee and they’ve never done anything outside of work.

Harry’s looking back at him, all concerned. “Yes? I mean, you want to be friends, right?”

Niall looks back down at his guitar. The knot in his insides loosens slightly, but it remains heavy in his stomach. Harry’s his friend, but he still told a twelve-year-old girl to fuck off last night, so he probably doesn’t deserve it.

“Thanks, Harry. It’ll never happen again.”

“I should hope not,” says Harry. “Seriously Niall, what the fuck is going on? Is it drugs? We can get you into a program?”

Niall can’t help laughing at that. He’s never taken a hard drug in his life. He’s never even been offered any. Probably they could tell he had no money. The laugh dies quickly. He shakes his head. “I thought she was a pap,” he says quietly, “They were all around me, like crowding and shouting and the little girl was behind me and she grabbed my arm and I thought she was one of them and I just…” He’d whirled around, snarling at the person to get the fuck off him, just in time to see her burst into tears. Someone had got a good shot of it. It’s on the front page of every magazine in every shop in London. “I just hate it, man.”

“We all hate it,” Harry says, “It’s just something we have to deal with.”

Harry doesn’t get it. He almost seems to like being trapped in a sea of bodies, the focus of screams and shouts and grabby hands. He doesn’t understand how it makes Niall feel like he’s eleven years old and separated from his Dad at the football. Like he’s seventeen and fresh off the boat from Ireland, standing in the Underground for forty-five minutes trying to bring himself to get on the train at rush hour. Like he’s dripping cold sweat in a nightclub, all his muscles clenched as he tries not to touch anyone. Harry doesn’t understand that the crowd of people pressing in on him makes Niall feel like he’s trapped in a box and the air is running out.

He hadn’t been expecting it – usually no one cares, probably don’t even recognise him. It’s only occasionally people approach him, usually when Harry’s done something particularly tabloid-worthy and they want something to misquote on the front page of a gossip rag. There had only been five or six photographers, maybe twice that in rubberneckers wanting to see what the commotion was, and one or two hardcore Harry Styles fans who recognized him from the documentary about Harry’s album. It had felt like a hundred.

Niall nods. “Can you stop doing stuff that makes people want to shout at me?”

Harry grins. “No promises.” Niall’s pretty sure the paps had been shouting about gay rumours again, like anyone actually gives a shit in this day and age. Harry seems to like those too. “Have you apologized?’

“I tweeted something this morning. Was writing her a sorry song, but I don’t even know her name.”  

 “My team have her details,” Harry tells him, “The mother’s exaggerating in all the papers.” He finally sits in the chair opposite Niall, throwing the magazine aside. “So other than that, how was your date?”

“Shit,” says Niall. He’d really thought she liked him, but she’d turned out to be after an introduction to Harry. It happens a lot. Not that he’d had much better luck with the ladies before he took the gig with Harry, but he’d kind of been hoping that now he was in the band for a major popstar things might improve on the perpetually single front. He’d got a surprising amount of attention on the internet after the documentary about making Harry’s album came out. There’s even a couple of blogs devoted to him where people have posted close-ups of his eyes and that one three-second shot of him and Harry laughing, edited into an hour long video. Not that he googled himself or anything. “I’m thinking on giving up women altogether.”

Harry pats him on the cheek, fingers caressing the spot where Niall’s dimple comes out. “Well, if you decide that’s the way to go, you know where to find me,” he says, getting up to leave. “Same goes if you want help with whatever made you freak out at a twelve-year-old girl.” He heads straight out the door without looking at Niall, which is lucky, because Niall can feel his whole body glowing bright, fire-engine red. He never really knows what to do when Harry makes jokes like that.

Niall’s Mam rings him when she sees the magazine covers. She wants him to come back to Ireland. Says London is bad for him and he needs to go to church more. She wants him to get a real job and marry a nice girl and have seven children who all stay in Mullingar their whole lives. He’s never quite managed to make her understand that he’d fade away in Mullingar. He loves going home, but he always felt restless there. Confined. There’s so much out there in the world – people to meet, places to see, music to share. He’s not quite whole without his guitar in his hands. There’s a piece of him missing when he’s not in Ireland, but it’s smaller than the piece that’s gone when there’s no music. He tells her he’s ashamed of himself and doesn’t say anything about how he’d felt something heavy pressing down on his chest as the photographers closed in. She’ll only worry.

***

Three days later, he can still see a crying twelve-year-old every time he closes his eyes, but the rest of the world has moved on. The press has discovered the alleged secret love child of a prominent politician and no longer care about the guitarist for Harry Styles snapping at a child.

Today’s the day. They’re getting on the plane to LA for the start of the tour. All the work they’ve done is about to be rewarded. Months of writing and rehearsal. Television appearances and Harry charming radio hosts, keeping a smile on his face as he answers the same questions over and over, and now they’re finally getting to the fun bit. Harry loves performing. Loves knowing that everyone’s watching. Right show off, Harry is, but it’s kind of endearing. He knows he’s a bit ridiculous and just goes with it. Watching it makes Niall feel warm inside. He’s doing a silly dance in the airport, making eyes at Niall until Niall gives in and twirls him, laughing. “Ready to set the world on fire, Niall?” Harry asks.

Niall rolls his eyes because it’s such a dramatic thing to say, and twirls Harry again. “You’re such a loser, Harold,” he says, not managing to sound even a tiny bit annoyed.

“Now, is that a nice thing to say to your friend?” Harry chides him, a small, playful smile on his face. He’s making too much eye contact and Niall has to look away. There’s something fluttering in his stomach.

***

Niall rolls up his sleeves, fanning himself with the safety card. His shirt’s sticking to him with sweat. It’s really hot in the plane. Nobody else seems to have noticed. The air is stale and it seems over-crowded, even in the relative comfort of business class. He’s already sat through two movies and listened to Soundgarden’s Superunknown album, but it’s getting harder and harder to distract himself from the way the roof curves too close to his head and the doors are shut tight and locked. Skydiving has never appealed to him, but it’s looking like quite a good option right now, even if they are directly over the empty ocean.

“Sir, are you feeling alright?” The flight attendant asks him, in the soothing voice of an animal control officer attempting to calm a rabid dog. He looks down and sees that he’s ripped up the in-flight magazine, tiny pieces of shiny paper littering the floor around his feet.

“Can I have a whiskey please?” He asks, shooting for a casual, relaxed tone and missing by an octave. He can feel people turning to look.

He gulps down the whiskey she brings him in one swallow, his hand shaking slightly as he places the glass on his tray table. He shuts his eyes, breathes deeply, and turns up The Eagles. They’re going on tour, he reminds himself. He’ll get to play guitar on stage with Harry every night for months. Only six more hours.

The lights are off but he can’t sleep, moving restlessly in his seat, so he gets up and paces the aisle. The flight attendant thinks he’s airsick and keeps offering him ice cream and warm towels. She’s trying to help, but all it’s doing is annoying him. She’s standing too close, boxing him in against the seats. He shakes his head and slides past her to flop down in the empty seat beside Harry, kicking him in the shin to wake him up. “Why do you get three seats to yourself, anyway?” He asks.

Harry looks up at him blearily. “Because I’m a popstar, Niall. I used to fly in a private jet when I was in the band but I downgraded.”

“You should upgrade again,” Niall tells him. “This sucks.”

Some businessman two rows back shushes them. Niall glares at him. “Talk to me, Harry.”

Harry pushes himself up in his seat, more awake. “Are you afraid of flying? You seem a little… tense.”

Niall laughs, the sound coming out brittle and weird. “It’s not so much the flying as being in the plane.”

“Do you need a cuddle?” Harry whispers.

Niall feels his shoulders move towards his ears. Apparently, it was possible to get tenser than he already was. “Feeling a bit crowded, actually, mate.” Usually he likes a good cuddle. Prides himself on being a champion cuddler. But right now, in this godforsaken metal cage in the sky, the very thought is making panic rise in his chest.

Harry’s moving to touch him but aborts halfway through at the look on Niall’s face. “We could sing,” he suggests.

Niall feels a weak but genuine smile cross his face. Harry would probably do it. “I don’t think a plane full of people raging after us with pitchforks will help.”

Harry pretends to be insulted. “I thought you liked my singing.”

The businessman shushes them again. Niall’s fists clench, his bitten-down fingernails digging into his palms. If they’re talking loud enough to bother that guy, then the guy can surely hear the whole conversation. He _knows_ that Niall’s right on the edge of totally freaking out and is still acting all annoyed about it.

“What can I do?” Harry asks.

The flight attendant is coming towards them, probably to tell Niall to get back to his own seat. The businessman has probably complained. Niall’s sure there are more people in here than at the beginning of the flight. He leans forward and puts his head in his hands, breathing deeply. “Distract me.”

“Mile high club?” Harry jokes.

Niall actually laughs at that. “I don’t think I’d be at my best.”

The flight attendant leans down so her face is close to his. “Sir, do you need medical assistance?” she asks quietly.

Niall shakes his head. “Can I stay here?”

 

When the plane finally lands, Niall is out the door so fast he doesn’t realise he’s left all his stuff behind until he’s at passport control and has to turn around and go back. Halfway back he meets Harry, surrounded by his entourage and carrying two carry-ons. He hands Niall’s over, along with his passport, wallet, and phone. “Thought you might need these.”

Niall is struck all over again by just how kind Harry is. He didn’t need to do that. He didn’t need to let Niall sit with him and bother him all night instead of sleeping. He didn’t need to bring Niall his stuff. He’s a massive star, with staff and people crawling all over each other to please him. Harry could have got someone else to do it, or not bothered with it at all. But he’d sat and talked to Niall for hours, the deep, slow stream of his voice drawing some of the edginess out Niall. He’d let Niall get out into the open while he went back to make sure Niall would have everything he needed. Harry doesn’t get enough credit for how much he wants to make people happy.

“Thank you,” Niall says, and means it.

 

The first show is the next night, right there in LA. Harry’s nervous. Keeps making little self-deprecating jokes about how he’s peaked too soon. He’s smirking, but Niall can tell he kind of means it. Harry’s worried about playing guitar on stage – he never played an instrument when he was in the boyband, he’d always focused on his voice. He wants to be taken seriously as a musician now that he’s gone solo, and serious musicians play instruments. Niall’s been working with him since he first joined the band. He wouldn’t say Harry’s a natural, but the parts he’s playing are simple and he can manage them easily. It’s just a matter of not letting the nerves get hold of him.  Niall wraps his arms around his friend and rubs circles on his back until Harry relaxes.

“You’re a great hugger, Niall,” Harry tells him seriously. “You could have a good sideline in it.”

Niall laughs and checks his guitars again before going over to play about on the drums with Sarah. She always laughs at how bad he is, but he taught himself from Youtube and he’s getting better.

They meet the opening band, a duo called Lilo. Louis plays keyboards and writes most of the songs. He’s a northerner with stunning blue eyes and a wicked sense of humour. He’s assertive and honest and Niall knows they’re going to be good mates within moments of meeting him. The singer, Liam, is solid and comforting. He talks fast, like he’s afraid if he stops he won’t get another chance to say anything, and is subtly weird in a fantastic way that just busts out of him unexpectedly every now and then. Niall’s well up for being friends with him too, although he thinks the hand-tattoos were maybe a mistake.

The venue’s close to filling up by the time Lilo take the stage. There’s electricity in the air. This is going to be the biggest gig Niall’s ever played. The crowd’s right into it, even for the openers. He bounces on the balls of his feet and meets Harry’s eyes as they listen to Lilo revving the crowd up. Harry smiles back at him, his eyes crinkling up at the edges. This is going to be the best night of his life.

When it’s their turn, Harry introduces himself like the crowd doesn’t already know who he is. The first song is the one that’s been all over the radio. They’ve been performing it for months, so they’re well practiced. The chords flow naturally from Niall’s fingers. Harry’s at the microphone in a colourful suit, relaxing into the song as his voice does what it was made for. The crowd roars. This is what Niall has been waiting for his whole life. It doesn’t matter that it’s not him they’re screaming for. He’s standing behind Harry, providing strong, sturdy, reliable support. The whole band is meshing together, creating something bigger and more beautiful than the individual components. His best friend is in his hands. Harry’s looking across at him, his eyes shining with excitement. Niall can feel an uncontrollable smile on his own face. This is the most fun he’s ever had.

Harry gets nervous again when it’s time for him to play guitar. He’s doing okay but keeps looking at his fingers, his strumming feeble as his confidence fails him. Niall goes to stand beside him. Nods encouragingly. Harry looks up at him, sees his smile. His strumming gets less tentative. The song sounds better for it and so does Harry’s voice when he sings.

They do two encores, the crowd going crazy, before finally Harry has to tell them he’s run out of songs. He goes around introducing the band. The crowd erupts for Niall, even though he was just doing his job in the band. Harry has to wait nearly a minute before moving on to Sarah, who also gets wild and prolonged applause. It’s the best Niall has ever felt about himself in his whole life.

 

***

“Who wants to play golf with me tomorrow?” Harry asks in Ohio, after a show.

“Me!” Niall shouts enthusiastically, before realising that no-one else is exactly rushing to join in.

Harry nudges him with his shoulder. “Guess it’s just you and me then, friend.”

“Look at them all, too young and hip to know what real fun is,” Niall laughs. “You should have told me there was golfing on tour, Harry. I would have brought my clubs.” Harry fist bumps him. Golf is the best.

As the after party is breaking up, Louis pats him on the shoulder on his way out the door. “Have fun tomorrow,” he says, grinning mischievously. “Get in, Neil!”

Niall stares after him in confusion then shrugs it off. There’s no understanding the inner workings of Louis’s brain.

***

Niall feels strangely nervous for no obvious reason the next morning. He changes his shirt three times before settling on the electric blue polo that his Mum says brings out his eyes. Only because it’s the most comfortable, obviously. It’s not like anyone’s going to be taking pictures of him and Harry playing golf. And it’s definitely not because Harry told him the other day that blue was a good colour on him. “Phenomenal,” had actually been the word, if Niall’s remembering correctly. He brushes his teeth and puts on a second round of deodorant.

When he gets to the course he’s glad he picked the blue shirt because Harry looks fantastic. His white shirt makes his skin seem to glow even more than usual and his trousers fit like they’ve been tailored for him. His dimples are out in full force. Niall had no idea he was this into golf. He surreptitiously wipes the sweat off his palm before high-fiving Harry. Their fingers intertwine for a second because Harry doesn’t know how to do high fives.

Harry keeps looking at him while they’re teeing off. Niall’s got that weird nervous feeling again. He laughs awkwardly. “Have I got something on my face?”

“Did you wear that shirt on purpose to distract me?” Harry asks, “Because it’s working.”

Niall can feel the blood rushing to the surface, his traitorous skin turning pink.

Harry turns away and leans over his golf bag to pull something out. Niall hits the worst tee shot he’s done in years.

It’s a fantastic day. Harry’s a bit awkward on the drive – keeps skewing it left and blaming Niall for distracting him – but his putting is better than Niall’s. He keeps trying to help by repositioning Niall’s hands on the putter. Niall’s putting gets worse every time he moves into Niall’s space to change his grip.  

Niall wins, but not by much. Neither of them had been playing their best. They have a couple of drinks in the nineteenth hole, talking about nothing, like they hadn’t just spent all day together. It merges into dinner. Niall tells him about his home course in Mullingar, the dimly lit club house with the Guinness stains on the threadbare carpet and the menu that consists entirely of cheese toasties and crisps. About playing twilight golf with his Dad on Thursdays before Da headed off to work nights. Sometimes Niall misses home so much it physically hurts, but not enough to want to give this up.

“Sometimes I really miss my Mum,” Harry says, like he’s sixteen, not twenty-four. “I think I’m going to go back to Holmes Chapel for Christmas this year.”

It’s dark outside by the time Niall gets back to his hotel. He sits on his bed and plucks a tune on the acoustic guitar he keeps with him. A song comes out about home and a non-existent lover he’s pining for. He records the bare bones of it on his phone, just his voice over the fingerpicked guitar. He’s not sure who’ll end up using it, if anyone. It doesn’t sound like Harry.

***

The shows keep getting better as the tour goes on. Harry gets more comfortable carrying the show on his own, more confident on guitar, more willing to change things up and improvise. Sometimes he’ll have a thought in the middle of the show and get so excited he has to come across and tell Niall, standing close and speaking directly into his ear over the screams of the crowd. For some reason the crowd seems to get louder every time Harry comes over to tell him something so Niall has to lean in close to hear.

In Memphis, he gets a text from his mate Sean from back home. **Are you banging Harry Styles?** It asks. There’s a photo of a page from a magazine. It’s a half-page glossy picture of Harry whispering in his ear on stage. Harry’s arm is around his waist, while Niall’s head is thrown back in laughter. The caption reads: _Singer Harry Styles with guitarist and rumoured lover Niall Horan._

Niall cracks up, showing the picture to Louis. For some reason, Louis seems less taken aback than Niall. Niall sends the picture to Harry. Harry will appreciate it.

He and Harry go to Sun Studios the next day. Harry’s acting weird and won’t pretend to be Elvis with him.

“What’s up with you?” he asks Harry, pulling Harry by the arm to look at Johnny Cash’s guitar. “You’re being weird.”

Harry’s looking at him incredulously. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“What?” Niall asks, taking a photo of the fretboard, worn down by Johnny Cash’s fingers.

“Being my rumoured lover?”

“Why would it bother me?” Niall laughs, pushing Harry to stand beside the guitar with him so he can take a selfie. “Compliment, isn’t it? People think I could land Harry Styles.”

Harry does his first proper smile for the whole day, Niall just managing to click the camera in time to capture it.

“Come on, Niall,” Harry smiles at him, “We both know you’re out of my league.”

Niall laughs and drags Harry over to look at the recording equipment. “Obviously we know that, but the rest of them don’t.”

As they take a photo with Elvis’s microphone, Harry whispers in his ear, “If you ever feel like slumming it, I’ll be there with bells on.” Niall’s so red in the photo it looks like he’s sunburnt. He can still feel Harry’s fingers on his hip hours later.

Niall doesn’t go out with the others later like he usually would, choosing instead to go back to the hotel room and write. He’s got a sudden inspiration for a song about slow, teasing hands and bodies working up a sweat in the dark.

***

They have two weeks off for Christmas. Niall heads back to Ireland for the first time in nearly a year. Harry’s going back to Holmes Chapel for the first time for two years. Usually his Mum and sister come to visit him in LA or London or wherever he is for work. He offers to go via Ireland so Niall doesn’t have to go on the plane alone. Niall doesn’t let him do it, even though his heart speeds up at the thought of being stuck in a plane for so long. He’s 25. He doesn’t need his friend to come with him to do something scary.

Harry looks concerned, but doesn’t force the issue. Still manages to schedule a flight so he can wait with Niall in the airport. Thinks he’s being subtle. Subtlety is not Harry’s strong point.

Niall hugs Harry goodbye when his flight is announced, not caring if anyone’s watching or taking pictures.

“It’ll be fine, Ni,” Harry reassures him, “It’s a big plane.”

It doesn’t make him feel better, but Niall appreciates the effort. He takes sleeping pills as soon as he sits down and mercifully passes out before the anxiety gets too bad. He sleeps for most of the trip, waking up just a couple of hours out from Dublin. He’ll feel groggy and awful tomorrow, but it’s better than sitting wide awake on a plane imagining the walls closing in.

He texts Harry when he gets in because he’d promised he would. He doesn’t get a response. Harry must still be in the air.

 

***

His mother has put a large, framed photo of him playing guitar up on the wall next to the one of Greg on his wedding day. The new one has finally replaced the terrible picture of him that had been up before, taken when he was fifteen and hadn’t yet got his braces. His hair had been bleached blonde in it, a bad home job from when he’d gone through his Backstreet Boys phase. He’s not sure where she got the new photo. It’s taken during a show and looks professional.

“Where did you get this?” he asks her.

His mother runs his fingers across it. “Oh, it’s a lovely photo,” she says, “I bought it off the photographer’s website. You just look so happy, love.”

Jesus. He’s a terrible son. His mother’s reduced to buying photos of him on the internet. But she’s right, it’s a good photo. He looks happier than Greg looks in his wedding photo.

“Do you want to come to the show in Dublin?” It’s immediately after the break. He really should have invited her earlier but he’d thought she wouldn’t want to come.

She’s specially made roast for him because it’s his favourite, and hasn’t even invited over anyone from church with a daughter of marriageable age.

He texts Harry as soon as he gets a second to organize getting his Mum backstage. Harry says his mother cried because she was so happy he’d come home after such a long time. At least Harry’s a terrible son too.

The next night is the annual pub crawl with the lads from school. It’s pretty cool that they’re all still mates, even if it’s in that distant kind of way where they get together once a year and drink until they get thrown out of the pubs. Well, Niall sees them once a year. A few of them went off to Uni, live in Dublin now, but most of them stayed in Mullingar and got jobs and never left. A couple of them have wives now, are starting families. Niall gets a lot of stick about being a fancy Londoner who eats sushi and goes to fashion shows. He’d like to say they were wrong but he actually does like sushi and Harry’s performing at a fashion show in Milan on the next leg of the tour. He gets a ton of requests to hook people up with models. He’s only met two of Harry’s supermodel friends and they were definitely a couple. “How’s Harry?” Sean asks, laughing. Niall realizes he never answered the text.

At the third pub, he runs into Amy, who he flirts with every year and sometimes hooks up with. She’s got a boyfriend now, but he wasn’t really feeling it anyway. His phone’s going crazy while he’s chatting to her. He doesn’t look at it even though he’s dying to know what it is, because he doesn’t want to be rude. When his phone buzzes for the fourteenth time in three minutes, Amy laughs. “Jesus, Niall, just answer the phone.”

It’s a series of photos of Harry and his Mum and sister making a spectacular gingerbread house. They’re all wearing matching reindeer jumpers. Harry’s got flour on his face and icing in his hair, which has fluffed up because he hasn’t put any product in it. Niall’s phone buzzes again as he’s laughing at the images. It’s a picture of a collapsed pile of gingerbread with the caption _this would never have happened if you were here._

“Aww,” Amy coos, “Niall’s got a girlfriend.”

Niall looks up at her in surprise. “What?”

“You’ve gone all sappy and fond,” she tells him, “It’s adorable. What’s she like? Do you looove her?”

Niall had been going to show her the photos but decides against it. “So tell me more about this boyfriend of yours,” he says, locking his phone before she can take it into her head to steal it and look for photos of his girlfriend.

 

He keeps his phone turned off on Christmas day because Christmas is family time. Plus, his mam would never forgive him if he embarrassed her by his phone going off during mass. He gives his nephew a toy drum. He’s pretty sure his brother’s going to kill him, but Theo loves it. Everyone eats and drinks too much. Niall cleans up in the afternoon because he’s trying to be a good son. He holds out until after everyone has gone to bed before he pulls out his phone to text Harry and the rest of the band. There’s a video message of Harry wearing a paper crown and singing Christmas carols, finishing up with a reminder to open his present. It’s an original Eagles shirt from their 1975 tour. Niall wears it to bed.

***

The day of the Dublin show arrives in a rush of people and work. Excitement coils through Niall’s body as he thinks about playing in front of his home crowd. Even though everyone’s come to see Harry and no-one really cares about the guitarist, he’s still going to be on stage in front of thousands of Irish people, these people who are his kin and make up the country that defines him as a person. It means something to him. Everyone else in the band and crew can see it. Keep talking about how Niall’s home.

Disaster strikes mid-afternoon, just hours before the show’s due to start. The stage manager gets a phone call and interrupts the preparations with the news that they have no openers. Liam and Louis were in a car accident on their way to the airport. Nothing life threatening, but they definitely can’t play today. A tense, still silence fills the room as everyone tries to think of a solution. The audience has paid for openers as well as Harry. Without Lilo, they’re 45 minutes short on entertainment, and Harry only has fifteen songs that the whole band has rehearsed.

“Ooh, Niall, Niall, Niall,” Harry exclaims suddenly, scratching at Niall’s shoulder like an oversized house cat, “You can do it!”

Niall stares at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“You’ve got 45 minutes of songs, you can open for us!”

“Uh…” says Niall.

“You’re Irish, they’ll love it,” Harry says, “You’ve got tons of stuff you can play by yourself. Thanks, Niall! You’re the best!”

So Niall finds himself, promptly at 6:30, making his way onstage, guitar in hand. The GA section at the front is already full of excited fans, mostly young women. There was a line outside when Niall arrived this morning. Hopefully none of them came specifically for Lilo, because they’re about to be very disappointed. The seats are filling up around the sides of the arena. It’s strangely quiet and expectant. Niall hadn’t quite realized until he’d got out to centre stage preparing to sing on his own how many people it took to fill up an arena. He fiddles with the microphone stand, adjusting it to his height.

“Hi there,” he says, giving the audience a smile and a wave, “I’m Niall.” A surprisingly loud cheer greets him. The crowd's pleased to see an Irishman. “Unfortunately Lilo have been unavoidably detained.” He holds up a hand to the worried murmurs that greet this announcement. “Nothing life threatening, but they can’t make it tonight, so you lucky bastards get to listen to me for 45 minutes. This is called _Issues_.” He starts strumming before he loses his nerve. He’s got some decent covers up his sleeve, but he’s no Lilo.

He follows up _Issues_ with a cover of _Dancing in the Dark_ , because everyone loves a bit of Springsteen. Starts to properly enjoy himself partway through. No-one’s booing or throwing things so he figures he’s doing alright and he feckin’ loves this song. He changes to an electric guitar for _Scared to Be Lonely_ and then back to an acoustic for Thin Lizzy’s _Dancing in the Moonlight_. Halfway in and still no-one’s yelling at him to get off the stage. In fact, they seem to be mad up for it. They’re quieter than for Harry, obviously, but the left front section is going absolutely wild (he’s pretty sure that’s where all his mates from school are) and some of the girls in the GA are screaming that they love him. “This is a quiet one,” he tells them, and starts to pluck the tune he wrote when he was missing home in Ohio. He starts to sing, “Waking up to kiss you and nobody’s there…” It goes strangely quiet around him, like there’s nothing in the world but his guitar and voice. He closes his eyes and sings.

Four songs later Niall nods to the audience, offering them a little bow, basking for a few seconds in the applause that’s just this once all for him.  “That’s it from me, guys. Well, I mean I’ll be back out with Harry in a couple of minutes but I’ll be standing over there,” he gestures to the spot he usually occupies, to the right and slightly behind Harry. He salutes them and starts to make his way off stage, finding himself strangely reluctant to leave this behind.

“That’s my boy,” he hears his Da even over the thousands of others in the crowd. He’s smiling like a fool and he doesn’t care.

His mum hugs him. He thinks there might be tears in her eyes, which is crazy. His mum never cries. She didn’t even cry during Marley and Me or Greg’s wedding.

Harry just barely contains himself enough to wait until Niall’s mum has finished fussing before he throws his arms around Niall in a hug that actually lifts Niall off the floor. “You were so good, Niall! That was amazing!”

The energy for Harry’s show is electric. Niall doesn’t know if it’s the Irish crowd or the holiday spirit or just the thrill that’s still running through him from having the spotlight focused on him, but everything seems bigger and brighter and wilder than usual. When it’s time for band introductions the crowd chants his name. He’d thought nothing could ever beat the first show he’d played with Harry. He was so, so wrong.

***

Niall’s euphoria lasts until the following morning when he brings up his newsfeed on his phone. The reviews are in for the Dublin show. The first headline reads _Harry Styles Upstaged by Guitarist._ The second is _Harry Who? I’m here for Niall._ He knows it’s a bad idea to read them and he does it anyway. There’s a warm glow of joy inside him when he reads the nice things they say about him – he’s a genuinely talented musician, he’s got a great voice, he’s good to watch on stage. Some of them are saying he should be releasing his own music, saying he could really make it as a singer-songwriter, his covers were respectful and his originals were exceptional.

The joy is quickly replaced by a confusing, twisted feeling of guilt, because the same articles that are saying all these lovely things about him are making it a competition. They’re saying he was the highlight of the show. Saying he’s too good to be playing in the background for an ex-boybander. Telling him to abandon Harry and go out on his own. They’re calling Lilo a terrible electro-pop R&B crossover with identity issues and Harry a poser with nothing but his looks and voice to recommend him (even the most biased of reviewers can’t deny Harry has an incredible voice). He doesn’t want to be happy for his own success at the expense of his friends, but he is. It feels like winning, and Niall never wins. It makes him feel sick.

When he gets on the bus for the drive to Belfast, he says nothing about the reviews. Pretends it’s just another day. Smiles wide and chatters about how much fun Belfast is going to be. He throws an arm around Harry in a quick hug of greeting. “You were fantastic last night,” he says.

Harry turns to him. “Louis has a broken wrist. They can’t play for a month. You did so well last night we’d like you to open, if you’re interested.” He’s smiling, but it’s polite and pleasant instead of warm. He’s speaking slowly, choosing his words carefully, as if he’s in an interview, waiting to be caught out. Niall can feel acid rolling around in his stomach. Harry’s treating him like a stranger.

“Sure,” Niall says brightly, “I can do whatever you need. Or I can help you find new openers if you want.”

“Thanks, Niall,” Harry says, “We’ll sort out payment later, yeah?”

“Harry,” Niall starts, but Harry is already gone, crossing the bus to talk to Sarah.

Niall goes and picks up his guitar. Starts strumming Fleetwood Mac. He’s feeling _Go Your Own Way_.

Harry’s stylist, Lou, comes over and runs her hand through his hair. “What’s the matter, Sweetie?” she asks him, like she’s talking to a child.

“Nothing,” he smiles at her, “You gonna sing?”

“You know I only sing when I’m drunk. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Everything’s fine,” he says, switching to Pearl Jam’s _Off He Goes_.

Lou sits down next to him on the bunk. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Niall, but you’re really bad at hiding your feelings.”

“No I’m not,” he protests defensively. So maybe he’s not great at reining it in when he’s happy or excited, but he’s fantastic at pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. Shit. She’s going to take that as an admission that he’s trying to cover something up.

“Remind me to play you at poker sometime,” she tells him, patting him on the back. “Now why don’t you drop the weird Stepford smile and let Aunty Lou help?”

Now that she’s said it, he can feel how fake his smile looks. It won’t leave his face. “Thanks, Lou. I think I’m just gonna carry on actually.” Even to his own ears he sounds overly cheerful. He can see Harry on the other side of the bus, scrolling through his phone and looking miserable. He’s probably reading the reviews. Takes criticism to heart, Harry, but reads it anyway. Niall’s pretty sure Harry had never failed at anything he tried even before he made it as a popstar. Sets you up for a fall, that.

“Well, that seems healthy and well adjusted,” Lou says, “If you want to talk, I’m here.”

“I’m fine,” Niall says, laughing even though nothing’s funny. He’d tried talking about his feelings once. Whoever said it helped was a damned liar.

Lou hugs him. “You know Harry’s not upset with you, right? He’s just hard on himself.”

Niall looks over at Harry. He looks pretty upset. “Yeah, of course.” The false brightness of his voice grates in his ears.

 

***

“Hello everyone,” Niall says, offering the crowd a little wave. “I’m gonna play some songs for you.”

The crowd waves back. A grin creeps across Niall’s face. He plucks the opening notes of _This Town_ and starts to sing.

It’s magic, doing this. He’d really thought playing guitar was enough. He loves playing with Harry, he really, truly does. Loves being part of the music. Loves watching Harry be Harry and win the hearts of thousands. But this – playing his own songs, giving a little part of himself to all these people – this is magic. Even the covers are songs he identifies with or associates with memories or emotions. People are taking that little part of him and validating it. They’re saying it’s beautiful or fun or heartbreaking. They’re listening to him. That little corner of himself that’s always afraid that no one really hears him is quiet when he’s doing this. Calm.

Some of the songs don’t sound quite right. There were violins in his head when he was writing them. But he’s just the fill-in guy, so he’s making do with what he’s got, just himself and his guitars. His month is nearly up.

The people sing along to _Slow Hands_ , the song he wrote in Memphis. They love that one. It warms his heart.

As he waves goodbye the crowd screams for him. “I’ll be back out with Harry soon,” he tells them. His blood is pumping fast through his veins. This rush almost makes him forget everything else.

A reporter tries to talk to him as he makes his way backstage to get ready for the real show. Niall doesn’t know how she got past security. The press aren’t meant to be here. “Is it true you’re working on your own album, Niall?” she questions him. “How does Harry feel about you using him as a stepping stone?”

The rush of the stage vanishes, a sudden cold overtaking him. He looks in the direction of Harry’s dressing room. Harry says everything’s fine. Still whispers in his ear on stage. Still laughs with him in rehearsals. Still sits with him and watches Youtube videos of The Stones. It’s all smooth on the surface but underneath there’s a current dragging Harry away. They never talk about Niall opening for him. They never talk about reviews or twitter followers or how _Slow Hands_ went viral the day after he first played it. They never mention how happy Niall looks in all the photos of him performing. Niall can feel himself trying too hard. Always taking Harry’s side, even when he disagrees with him. He can’t help it. He doesn’t want Harry to hate him.

“No,” he tells the reporter, “No, I’m not making an album.”

 

***

Liam and Louis join back up with them in Paris.

“You’ve been smashing it, Neil,” Louis tells him, “Call us when you need openers, yeah?”

Liam sings a bit of _Slow Hands_ at him, says he loves it.

Niall hugs them both. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says, and fusses over Louis’s wrist until Louis looks at him like he’s gone mental.

“Are you alright, Nialler?” Louis asks.

Niall stares at him. Of course he’s alright. Louis and Liam are the ones whose misfortune he’s taken advantage of. “Everyone’s going to be so glad you guys are back opening,” he smiles at Louis, “Finally get me back to where I belong.”

“Mate,” says Louis, “Hiding behind Harry isn’t where you belong.”

“I can’t wait to see you guys back in action,” Niall says, “It’s gonna be great!”

“Niall,” Louis starts. Niall pretends to see someone he needs to talk to and gets out of there before they can catch on to how uncomfortable he feels. How much he wishes it was him going out there to open for Harry.

 

***

They have the next day off. Just a free day for a rest. No show, no travel, nothing. Harry barges into his room at the crack of dawn, holding a smoothie he’s made Niall for breakfast. In an extreme display of trust, Niall drinks it despite its murky brown colour and foul taste.

“Get up get up get up,” Harry demands, “We’re sneaking out.”

“Can you give me half an hour?” Niall says. His brain doesn’t work well enough to think things through this soon after waking up.

“Nope,” says Harry, moving to drag him out of bed. “Go and have a shower. I’ll wait here. Why do you never want to play with me anymore?”

Harry’s wearing an exaggerated kicked-puppy face. Niall’s powerless. “Fine,” he mumbles, and goes to take a shower.

They go out the back door of the hotel. It’s just the two of them. No security, no management, no showbiz. There’s no one out on the streets at this hour, all sensible people still at home and fast asleep.

Harry’s practically bouncing along the street, fingers wrapped around Niall’s wrist as he pulls him along. His smile puts the morning sun to shame. “What are you so happy about?” Niall asks, catching Harry’s grin.

“There’s my Niall,” Harry’s looking at him, all fond, like nothing’s weird between them at all, “It’s just you and me. We can do whatever we want.”

They take photos at the Eiffel Tower, lit up by the sunrise before the crowds arrive. They have croissants for second breakfast at a tiny café down an alleyway, even though it will ruin Harry’s diet. They go shopping, Harry taking him into all the places Niall would never dare to go alone for fear of the snobby salespeople. He buys a fancy designer shirt because he can afford it now he works for Harry. They wander around until Niall has no idea where they are, but it doesn’t worry him because he’d rather be lost in the streets of Paris with Harry beside him and no idea how to get home than safely in the hotel alone. They find a record store full of old vinyl and spend an hour excitedly showing each other their finds. It’s the most relaxed Niall’s felt offstage in weeks.

When they make it back to the hotel in the evening, it’s surrounded. There are thousands and thousands of people outside, covering all the entries and exits, waiting for a glimpse of Harry.  Harry makes the taxi driver take them around the block while he calls security. When he turns his phone on, he’s got dozens of messages. Word’s got out that Harry and Niall have disappeared somewhere.

Niall wants to just take off, find another hotel somewhere. The only important thing in his room is his guitar. Someone can bring it to him somewhere else. Harry shakes his head. “They’ll find us,” he says, his good mood ruined, “They always do. We’ll just have to do this in the morning on the way out anyway. Better to get it over with

Niall almost tells Harry to go without him. The crowds are here for Harry. They won’t follow Niall somewhere else. But then the media will latch onto it, there will be rumours all over the net about how Harry won’t let him stay in the same hotel. About how they don’t talk and Harry thinks he’s better than his band. Niall won’t be responsible for damaging Harry’s image.

Security forms a ring around Harry he gets out of the car. He’s perfectly calm and pleasant to everyone as he’s pulled away through the hordes. A hand grabs his coat and pulls hard enough to rip it. Someone catches Harry’s arm and holds on. Harry nearly falls, a security guard freeing him firmly but gently at the last second. As Harry disappears from view Niall is gripped by an overpowering fear that Harry’s going to die. They’re going to kill him out of love and Niall’s never going to see him again. He didn’t even hug him good-bye.

“Niall!” a voice says firmly. “Niall, look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?” Harry’s head of security is in the car. Niall didn’t even notice him arrive, to busy watching Harry get devoured by the mass of people. He blinks and tries to focus. His breathing’s gone all fast and shallow. There are people bashing on the car.

“Three,” Niall answers.

“And now?”

“One.”

“Look at my hand, Niall, how many fingers?”

“Four.”

Niall’s breathing is slowing down. His heart feels less like it’s exploding.

“We’re professionals, Niall. We’ve done this many times before. You need to trust us, let us do our jobs, and try to keep calm. Can you do that?” Paul is comfortingly huge and professional. Niall nods. He doesn’t think he can talk.

It’s a thousand times worse than he was ready for. He can hear people shouting his name. Screaming things that might be in French or English but don’t sound like either. They’re pressing in on him. It’s so loud and hot and confusing. Fight or flight has kicked in. He desperately wants to run but he can’t move his legs. His heart’s beating so hard his chest hurts. He’s having a heart attack, he’s sure of it.

“Niall,” Paul says, tough and Irish, like home. “How many fingers?”

Niall looks at his hand through the blurred edges of his vision. “Three.”

When they finally make it into the lobby, Niall finds the nearest bin and throws up until it’s just dry-heaving. He sinks down next to the wall and curls up with his head in his hands. People keep coming to check on him, ask him if he’s okay when he’s obviously not. He waves them off, tells them to leave him alone. He’s a grown man and he’s crying in public but he feels like he’s going to collapse and he can’t face the tiny lift up to his room.

Harry comes and crouches in front of him. “I’m sorry, Niall,” he whispers, sounding so distressed Niall lifts his head to look at him. There are tears in his eyes. “I should have listened to you. We should have gone to a different hotel.” He sits down next to him, not touching, just there. “I had no idea it was this bad, I mean I knew you weren’t big on crowds or small spaces, but I didn’t think… I mean, you could have said something. We would have organized something to help.”

Niall silently thanks his friend for saying could have instead of should have. He doesn’t think he could deal with Harry blaming him right now. He droops sideways, dropping his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to quit,” he goes to say. What comes out is “I’m not leaving you.”

Harry’s hand comes round to rest on his head. “You’re my best friend,” he says. “I want you to be happy. Always.”

***

The next day, when the immediate terror is over, all Niall wants to do is shut himself in his room and hide. He’s in his mid-twenties and the whole world just saw him freak out like a lost four-year-old over a few people. Security managed to delete any footage taken inside the hotel so there’s no video of him hurling in the bin or crying all over Harry, but there’s nothing they could do about all the phones outside. He’s too afraid to even look at the internet. He packs and repacks his suitcase until it’s perfect.

His mum calls. She wants him to come home where she can look after him. She doesn’t actually say that, obviously, but it’s what she means. What she actually says is that there’s a job opening at the factory where his uncle works. “I’m fine,” he says, “I love my job.” He lies on his bed, exhausted. His whole body aches.

Harry comes to see him a couple of hours before they’re due to head to the venue. “Do you need to call in sick?”

Niall stares at him. “What? No!” He dredges up a smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harold. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Harry’s eyes are all big and worried. “I think you should go to the doctor.”

Niall shakes his head. He’s fine. He just needs to get over it. It’s part of the job.

 

***

By the time Niall leaves the hotel to go to the venue, the crowd is mostly gone. Maybe because Harry left earlier to draw them away; maybe they just got cold. Niall’s teeth are still gritted all the way to the arena, half-expecting to have to fight through a crowd to get inside.

People keep coming up to him and giving him hugs or little pats on the back or making little comments that are meant to be reassuring, but come across as patronising. He makes a few jokes about it – laughs it off, because it’s not a big deal. He just wishes people would stop calling attention to it. He can fix this. He bought an eBook this morning about curing phobias.

He can’t properly relax until he’s onstage, coaxing the music out of his guitar with practiced hands. Tension seeps out of him as he gets lost in the patterns of his fingers and the rhythm of the songs. He sings his backing vocals, his voice coming out perfectly on key. Harmonising with Harry comes naturally, their voices blending until it’s like they’re one person. He feels almost whole again.

There are people holding up signs in the crowd. Hundreds of them. Harry asks for the lights to be brought up so he can read them. Niall’s jaw drops. There must be a thousand and they all say the same thing. SORRY NIALL.

Niall stares. It’s a beautiful gesture. He doesn’t know how they organized it so fast. Twitter or something, he guesses. It’s really Harry they should be apologizing to – he was the one they were after, Niall was just collateral damage. He appreciates it anyway. They saw Niall was upset and cared enough to try to make it better. They could just as easily be laughing at him for crying, or making a meme out of his frightened face or making unfair comments about how unfriendly he is to Harry’s fans. But they chose this display of love for someone who lurks behind their hero on the stage. His eyes are wet. Harry’s waving him over to say something into the mic.

Niall’s never had a problem with public speaking. He’s not shy. Never really understood what there is to be worried about. People are just people, after all. He can always find something to chat about. But now, looking out at the display of love for him, he’s at a complete loss. He can’t even identify what he’s feeling, let alone express it. Harry’s rolling his hands in the air, urging Niall to say something.

Niall lets go of his guitar, realising he’s been holding onto it for dear life, and adjusts the microphone. He’s never really noticed how tall Harry is before. “Thanks, guys,” he stumbles over the words stupidly, “This is…really nice.” It seems insufficient, but they caught him off guard and his eloquence has abandoned him. Everyone’s still looking at him expectantly. The pause goes on a bit long. It’s getting awkward. “I… I got issues…” he sings, much to his own surprise.

Harry comes up to the microphone and leans in front of Niall to speak, grinning wildly. He knows Niall hadn’t been expecting that to come out of his mouth. “Niall deeply appreciates what you’ve done tonight. He’s going to sing you a song to say thank you.” He nods at Niall. “Take it away, Niall.”

Niall plays the opening notes of _Issues_ and starts to sing. When he gets to the chorus he puts everything he couldn’t say into it. “I got issues, you got ‘em too… give them all to me and I’ll give mine to you…” He offers the audience. “Bask in the glory, all our problems… but we’ve got the kind of love it takes to solve ‘em…”

The crowd sings it back to him. For three minutes, twenty thousand people are connected. As they sing the final chorus together Niall realizes he would walk through that crowd again for this moment.

***

Everything goes back to normal for a while after that – Harry stops being all pleasant and aloof and starts pretending to be Mick and Keith with Niall on stage (and sometimes not on stage) again. Niall finds some of the tension easing out of him. People have stopped looking at him weird because of the opening thing and the freaking out in the crowd situation. The weirdest thing that happens is when he goes out to get coffee by himself in Belgium and a teenage girl asks him for a photo, even though Harry’s not there. He obliges and has a bit of a chat with her about the show that night. She’s so flustered and in such a hurry to Instagram it that she nearly walks in front of a bus and he has to save her by grabbing the back of her coat. She throws her arms around him and gushes about how wonderful he is for saving her, like it’s really surprising he’s not a psychopath who likes watching people get hit by buses.

“My hero,” sighs Harry when he gets back with the coffee. For a second, Niall thinks he’s just referring to a superb best friend who fetches coffee for people, but then he catches the glint in Harry’s eye and realizes the girl’s tweeted about him heroically rescuing her.

“That’s me,” Niall agrees, “Better stick with me, Harold, you’re bound to need saving eventually.”

Harry hugs him gently. “You save me all the time, Niall.”

Niall chortles. “Have you got a role in one of those TV-movies about troubled youths or something?”

***

Lilo are killing it as the opening act. Honestly, Niall probably wouldn’t pick listening to their music over, say, Bruce Springsteen or Neil Young, but they’re good within their genre and they’re tons of fun to hang out with. He can almost stamp out the little fire of jealousy inside him if he reminds himself enough how incredible Liam’s voice is and how much recognition Louis deserves as a songwriter.

“They’re always hoping it’s gonna be you that comes out to open,” Liam tells him one night after the show. They’re a lot of drinks in. Niall can feel his smile grow when he hears it. He hates himself, just a little bit.

“Of course they’re not,” he says, when he’s managed to wipe the inappropriate smile off his face. He gives Liam a hug and rests his head on his shoulder. “They love you. ‘Cause you’re brilliant.”

“Not as much as they love you,” Liam says, a little sadly, “You’re lovely. I bet if you decided to go for it you’d win.”

“It’s not a competition,” Niall says, and keeps hugging Liam because he loves Liam and doesn’t want him to be sad.

“I’m thinking of becoming a fireman,” Liam tells him, “Did you know Louis’s having a baby?”

“Louis can’t have a baby,” Niall snickers into Liam’s chest. “Louis’s a man.”

***

“What do you mean you’ve never watched Titanic?” Harry’s staring at him in horrified disbelief.

“It’s like four days long and everyone dies.” Niall’s never really been a movie guy. He’d rather go and do something. If he’s watching TV it’s usually sport, engrossed in it if it’s his own team, half watched while he plays guitar or scrolls through his phone otherwise.

“Niall, cancel your plans,” Harry demands, “We’re staying in tonight.”

Niall takes off his guitar and puts it down, resigning himself to an evening of watching people being nauseatingly romantic and then dying. Even if he hates it, he’s probably going to cry because he hates seeing other people being sad. But it’s okay, Harry’s not going to judge, and will definitely also cry.

Niall subtly checks his watch again. They’ve been lying on Harry’s bed for hours. Niall will admit that it’s not as bad as he thought but if he doesn’t move soon he’s going to go crazy. He’s extremely, distractingly aware that Harry’s hand is on his thigh. It’s just resting there, like it’s a comfortable spot for Harry to leave it while he concentrates on the screen. Niall’s not sure whether Harry’s even realized what he’s doing. It’s possible he just thinks of Niall as part of the furniture at this point and all the flirting actually is just a joke. Niall’s knee is getting stiff so he bends it to rest his foot flat on the bed. Harry’s hand is heavy as it shifts on Niall’s leg.

Niall turns his head. Harry’s not looking at the TV anymore. He’s got his game face on. Only it’s not really his game face. Niall’s seen the face Harry uses on models and hook-ups and casual acquaintances. This is the same, but it’s different too. Softer. Niall can hear his own heartbeat over the movie. He runs his hand up Harry’s arm, skimming over the jumble of unconnected memories that decorate it. Harry’s leaning in.

Then Harry stops. Takes his hand off Niall’s thigh. Turns away.

Niall freezes, feels his stomach drop out. “What’s wrong?”

Harry shifts across the bed, staring at the TV so he doesn’t have to look at Niall. “When you said you weren’t going to leave… what did you mean? Me or the band?”

Niall frowns, puzzled. Whatever he’d thought was bothering Harry, it wasn’t that. He thinks about it for a second, about how long it’s taken them to get to this point. About how Harry, always so confident, hadn’t made a move for months and months. Harry has one night stands or relationships that die speedily when the other person realizes they can’t cope with everything that comes with Harry Styles. But this won’t be like that. “Both,” Niall reassures him softly.

Harry looks at him. “But what about your career? Aren’t you going to make an album? I know you want to make your own music, Niall. You could do so well.”

“I’m not going to abandon you, Harry,” Niall tells him firmly. For a second a vision spins through his head. He’s onstage. The room is silent except for him, his guitar, his song. Before him, ten thousand floating lights sway like candles or fireflies in the dark. But he doesn’t need that. Not if it means backstabbing Harry.

Harry’s blinking fast as he nods. There might be tears in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Just gets up without a word and leaves.

Niall waits, watching the ship on screen slowly fill with water. Harry doesn’t come back.

***

“Is everything alright, Niall?” Lou asks him the next day as she does his hair. They’re doing a thing for a magazine. It’s going to have profiles on the whole band. They’re taking photos for it. Lou’s got her work cut out for her, trying to make Niall look his best after the sleepless night he’d had last night. “Did you and Harry… did something happen?”

“Everything’s great!” Niall says, with slightly too much enthusiasm. Everything is not great. He’s figured out why Harry disappeared. He wasn’t asking for reassurance that Niall wasn’t going to hurt him. He just wanted benefits and was checking Niall was on the same page. And Niall had declared his eternal devotion like a fuckin’ psycho. Security’s probably checking his room for life-size Harry dolls this very moment. He always does this. It’s just like when he was sixteen and offered to move to Spain with the exchange student who hadn’t realized they were more than friends. Fuck.

Lou ruffles his hair one last time and reaches for the can of hairspray. “Well, I’m sure you guys will sort it out. He’s mad about you, you know.”

Niall almost says something about how Harry had disappeared the night before and has been steadfastly avoiding being alone with him all morning, but there’s a cloud of hairspray all around him and he can’t open his mouth. If Harry’s mad about him, he’s doing a really good impression of someone freaking out because their mate promised to stay with him forever. He coughs and waves away the hairspray. “Thanks. Where do I go?”

The photoshoot is just in an empty meeting room in the hotel. There are a few props, some lighting set up, but it’s pretty simple. Simpler than usual for Harry. Although maybe this is just for the band and Harry is getting something wilder. They’re shooting everyone individually, to illustrate each profile. At the end, there’s going to be a group shot, but they’re trying to humanize them or establish them as individuals or something. Something about proving how Harry had personally selected only the best for his band, picking both for musical ability and personality. Niall heads straight for one of the guitars, automatically starting to tune it when he discovers how discordant it sounds.

“Oh, that’s fantastic, keep doing that!” An Australian accent says, accompanied by the rapid clicking of a camera. Niall looks up in surprise. He hadn’t even realized the photographer was in the room. He’d just wanted something to do with his hands while he waited. “Do you always do that?” The photographer asks, chuckling, “Straight for the guitars, like there’s nothing else in the room?”

Niall laughs along with him and nods. “Every time.” It’s not always true, to be fair. Sometimes he plays drums or has a go on the piano. Every now and then he’ll sing without the guitar, but he never knows what to do with his hands. “If there’s a guitar to play, I’m playing it.”

“Ohh, that is perfect, look at that dimple,” the photographer murmurs, so low Niall only just catches it. He ducks his head awkwardly and strums the guitar. “Miwa, can you move the light to the left? I want to bring out those eyes… straight into the camera, Niall, give us your best bedroom eyes…”

Niall tries for sexy, but he starts laughing halfway through because it’s kind of ridiculous. The photographer’s assistant makes a strange little squeaking noise and then busies herself with the lights when he looks at her.

“Want to play us something?” The photographer asks, “If you could just sit on the stool and play guitar, maybe sing a bit if you want, I’ll get some great photos.”

Niall shrugs and sits. This isn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be. He gets to muck about with a guitar while they take pictures. It’s almost taking his mind of what’s going on with Harry. “What kind of music are you into?”

The photographer looks over at his assistant. “Any requests, Miwa?”

Miwa squeaks again. “Country,” she mumbles, “I like country.”

Niall plays _Jolene_ as dramatically as he can and doesn’t think about how he’d learnt it because Harry had been thinking about including it in his set.

They let him look through the photos at the end of the short session. There’s a few where his eyes are closed or he looks mildly unwell because he’s trying to look sexy, but mostly the photographer has done an amazing job. He wouldn’t have even believed it was him in the photos, he looks so good. There are a couple from the beginning, before he’d realized he was being photographed where he looks sad, but mostly he looks like exactly what he is – someone who _loves_ music. There’s one in particular where he’s looking down at the guitar like a lover, taken just before he started singing, that’s almost embarrassingly open.

The photographer gives him his card as he leaves to go to the room where the interviews are being conducted. “Keep me in mind if you need someone to shoot your album cover.”

Niall tucks it in his pocket and smiles his thanks. Doesn’t say he’s not making an album. Doesn’t know what he’s gonna do if Harry doesn’t want him anymore.

The interview’s not too bad either. The lady interviewing him is Irish, though she lives in London and writes for a British magazine. He remembers her from when she interviewed Harry about the album documentary. Greets her with a cheery, “Hi Laura,” and his best smile. She’s very impressed that he remembered her name. He’d not been looking forward to this because he’d thought they would use it as an opportunity to ask a ton of awkward, excessively personal questions about Harry. He’s seen interviews from when Harry was in the boyband and is incredibly glad he wasn’t involved. Laura’s nice though. She doesn’t ask anything about Harry. Mostly they just have a nice chat about Mullingar and The Pogues and Ireland’s chances in the Six Nations (they’re going to win this year, he knows it).

“How did you end up playing guitar for Harry Styles?” she asks, “Was this always your plan or did it just happen?”

“Just happened, really,” he shrugs. He thinks back to when he was a kid, singing into the mirror. Back then, he’d wanted to be a singer. It had taken a long time and a lot of practice for the guitar to feel like part of him. He’d had dreams of selling out Croke Park, of thousands of people coming to hear him sing his own songs. “Was never going to make it on my own. Not that good at singing, y’know. Everyone who wants to do this, they’re all so good. Sometimes you have to adapt and it turns out you love that too.”

 She leaves it until the very end before she tells him she was at the Dublin show the first time he’d opened instead of Lilo. “It was amazing of you to do that at such short notice,” she tells him, “I’d love to see you do more performances. You and Harry are as good as each other, in different ways. I think you have a beautiful voice.”

He leaves in a much better mood than he’d been in at the beginning of the day, happy that she’d liked him without feeling the need to unjustly criticize anyone else.

The last item on the agenda is the big group photo. There’s a lot of time to sit around and worry before it. Harry’s nowhere to be seen, probably still having his solo photos taken. Niall goes over and chats with some of the magazine crew because he can’t stand sitting around doing nothing. The intern puts his playlist on shuffle and plays Name that Song with him.

When it’s finally time to do the big group photo, Niall goes into the bathroom beforehand and checks his smile in the mirror. It looks real.

Harry’s smile looks real too. They’re set up to look like they’re casually jamming. The photographer keeps ushering him and Harry closer together, maybe to replicate the stage set up or something. Niall tries not to tense up, but up this close he can tell Harry’s not really smiling. He’s got shutters down behind his eyes so Niall can’t see what he’s thinking. He doesn’t touch Niall once during the session. Not a hug, not a hand on the shoulder, not a casual brush of fingertips. Niall’s recovered mood is replaced by the hurt and anxiety he’d started the day with. He works hard at not letting it show on his face. Concentrates on his fingers on the guitar and nothing more.

***

The article comes out a few weeks before tour is due to wrap up. It’s a good article – shows everyone in a nice light. It’s nice to see the band members acknowledged as proper musicians and people. The pictures have captured everyone’s personalities beautifully. Sarah has very kindly said he’s shit at drums. It’s not a lie. He goes over and steals her drumsticks in retaliation. Tells her he obviously needs to practice and plays a drum solo that’s really just him bashing stuff as hard as he can. It helps get out some of his frustration. Harry’s said lots of lovely things about him in the article and he doesn’t know how much of it Harry means. He hasn’t been unpleasant to Niall at all, more like he’s quietly sneaking away because he doesn’t want to talk about how Niall had, with one word, ruined all their casual flirting and deep friendship.

“Hey, Niall,” Sarah says, her usual teasing expression gone as she takes her drumsticks back, “You know that’s not true, what you said in the article, right?”

Niall looks at her in confusion. The only thing he can remember saying in the article was that Ireland was going to win the Six Nations, which is definitely true, and anyway Sarah’s not really a rugby person. He didn’t read his own section because that would be weird. “What?”

“About you not being good enough to make it? I hope you don’t actually think that.”

Niall shrugs. He’d tried out for X-Factor once, a long time ago. That had been enough to make him realise some people just aren’t as good at the things they love as other people. Niall’s worked hard. Got a music degree. Had singing lessons and practiced guitar until his fingers bled. Played pubs and open mic nights. Busked in the streets. He plays in the band for a popstar. Hears songs he helped write on the radio, even if it’s not him singing them. He’s counts himself as successful. It’s a damn sight better than collecting the dole every week and desperately trying out for any talent show he can find, or tearing his hair out every day trying to teach kids who took music because they thought it would be easy.

“I didn’t mean I’m just doing this because I couldn’t make it on my own,” he says, even though he kind of was in the beginning.

“Good,” she says, “Because if you did think that, you’d only be holding yourself back.”

***

The last day of the tour has a weird feel about it. Everyone’s sad it’s ending, but happy too. They’re all tired. Months of late nights and high energy shows and travel will do that. They’re back in London to close out the tour because it seemed right to end it at home and Harry’s fans seemed up for it. Niall’s going to miss it – being on stage, feeling the appreciation of the crowd for live music. He’s going to miss the people. Everyone’s heading off in different directions. Louis’s going back to the states. His girl is pregnant. Next time Niall sees him he’ll probably have a kid. Liam’s staying in London. He’s got a new lady friend he seems pretty happy with. Harry’s… Niall doesn’t know. Harry hasn’t told him. To be honest, he thinks he’s a little relieved that he won’t be seeing Harry for a couple of months. Won’t have to face that little spark of hope he gets every time he sees him that today everything’s going to go back to normal. Sometimes it seems like Harry forgets he’s put up all these walls and looks at Niall the same way he used to. Those days are the worst.

It’s a good show. The crowd is going wild, especially for the couple of songs they’ve added that weren’t on the album. Niall forgets everything and pretends to be Keith Richards to Harry’s Jagger. They laugh like there’s nothing wrong between them.

Towards the end of the set, Harry stops the show suddenly. Usually they set is the same every night, but tonight a guitar tech hands him an acoustic. Harry always looks a little strange playing guitar, like he wants to wave his hands around but he can’t because they’re in use. He must have been practicing, because it sounds confident when he strums the opening of _Go Your Own Way_.

Harry turns his whole body to look at Niall. He’s wearing a purple suit and is so _Harry_ it hurts. “Niall,” he wheedles, “Will you sing with me?”

 “Of course, Harry,” Niall replies. He’s already started playing along with Harry.

Harry nods at him to take the first verse. They’ve played it many times before, jamming while they were writing the album, or on days they just felt like a bit of the Mac. A tech has set up a mic for him next to Harry, so he goes to it. He looks at the audience for a second before turning to face Harry and starting to sing.

“Lovin’ you… isn’t the right thing to do… how can I… ever change the things that I feel?” He looks at Harry as he sings it, trying to say all the things he can’t say in real life. Sorry I made you uncomfortable. Sorry we wanted different things. I want us to be best friends again because that’s more important than anything else. I want you to be happy. I love you. I wish you loved me back. “If I could… baby I’d give you my world… how can I, if you won’t take it from me?” He hears his voice catch on the last line. Harry seems to have forgotten he’s on stage. His hands have stopped on the guitar.

They sing the chorus together, Niall’s hands sure as ever on the strings.

Harry sings the second verse, voice strung out with emotion. Niall’s close enough to see tears in his eyes as he sings, “If I could… baby I’d give you my world… open up… everything’s waiting for you…”

***

After the show, everyone’s exhausted and emotional. Niall doesn’t feel like living it up, but there’s people here he won’t see for months, so he stays. Manages to have fun in spite of himself. Hugs a lot of people. Promises phone calls and meeting up for drinks and writing sessions. Some of them might happen.

Next morning, he’s hungover and overtired when Harry comes to his room. He lets him in, offers him coffee or tea. Harry says no, wisely in Niall’s opinion. He once saw a TV show where they were talking about people pissing in hotel kettles. It probably doesn’t happen in the kind of establishments where they’ve been staying, but Niall’s reluctant to use them all the same.

“Niall,” Harry says, “Can you sit down?”

Niall knows it’s not going to be good then. He’d thought for a few minutes last night while Harry was singing to him that maybe he felt the same way. Harry looks grave enough that Niall’s starting to get a little worried someone’s died. He sits on his bed. He’d made it neatly, even though Housekeeping will be stripping it and replacing the bedding for the next person in a couple of hours.

Harry drags the chair over and sits opposite him. He leans forward, elbows on legs, hands clasped together. “Niall,” he says seriously, and Niall can tell he’s rehearsed what he’s about to say. It’s all carefully planned out, all Media Harry and no Real Harry. “I’ve loved working with you for the past 18 months. You’re fantastic at what you do and you’ve made the whole experience a million times better for me.”

Niall tenses for the blow. The words all say good things, but the face doesn’t.

“You’ve got so much talent, Niall. You make any place better just by being there. You could do anything you set your mind to. You could be anything.”

Niall waits in silence. Doesn’t say he wants to stay.

He’s ready for it, but it still hurts when it comes. “We’re not renewing your contract.”

Harry’s mask slips a little. There might be genuine pain in his eyes. Niall’s not sure because he can’t look at Harry’s face. He’s never been fired before. It feels a lot like being dumped. He nods slowly. Swallows his tears down. Paints his smile back on. “I guess I’ll see you around then.”

“Niall…” Harry sounds anguished, his composure slipping away. “Please understand, I just want you to be happy.”

He’s not.

***

Niall goes back to his Mam’s in Mullingar. He’d given up his flat in London when they’d gone on tour. No point spending all that money on something he doesn’t need.

Mam cooks him lots of food and lets him play her record collection and doesn’t ask him any questions. He thought going home would make him feel better, and it does, in a superficial kind of way. But everything is kind of grey and dull. He tries to write the same song eight times, but nothing works. All his mates are at work during the day so he plays golf alone and tries not to think about how much more fun it would be with Harry.

His Mam starts encouraging him to get a job. There’s always jobs going at the factories. He could even go into Dublin for something. He’s got enough savings to last him a while. He puts up a few flyers for guitar lessons to please her, and starts escaping to his Granny’s to play the piano there. He’s getting better, maybe even good enough to play in public one day.

He cleans the attic out for his mother and finds the violin he’d learnt on as a kid. It’s dusty and too small, but it’s not worth buying a new one until he knows he really is going to take it back up. He tunes it and pulls up a tutorial on Youtube.

A week later, he’s practicing _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ when he realizes he’s sitting in his childhood bedroom, playing a tiny violin. He needs to do something. He goes into Dublin and buys a full size one. Signs up for an open mic night while he’s out. He spends an hour talking to the guys in the music shop. He’s missed talking to people who get it. He comes out happier than he went in.

The day after the open mic night, Mam goes out and he watches the football with his guitar in his lap. At halftime his fingers move of their own accord and the song he’s been trying to get out for weeks takes formation. He misses the whole second half, but he feels like he’s writing something with meaning. It’s simple and starkly worded and it hurts to sing. It’s beautiful, he thinks. It’s going to make people feel. Sometimes simplicity is what’s needed.

He writes a song about being left, lying alone and waiting for someone to come back and say they’ve made a mistake. He makes it about a break-up, because who the fuck writes a song about getting fired?

One comes along about building a relationship that’s always threatening to collapse because it’s not built of a stable material.

There’s another, all frantic, surging violins about living in constant fear that someone will find someone new and forget about you.

There’s one about the day someone picks you, starts choosing to spend time with you above anyone else. About how it feels to be someone’s favourite person.

There are a couple about things he wanted to say to Harry, but never did. He should have told Harry he could tell him anything. Niall would listen to him, without judgement. He could just be himself. Niall should have told him in words that he didn’t want anything from Harry. That he was willing to simply stand behind him, ready to catch him if he fell. But he never had, so he’s saying it now.

He plays some of them at an open mic night at one of the many pubs in Mullingar. They go down well and he goes out with the lads after. Has a truly epic night, still amped up from performing his own music, even if it was just to thirty people in a pub.

The next day, he writes an Irish drinking song about how it’s okay to be alone, and realises he means it. He calls his agent. “I’ve got an album,” he says.

***

He spends a year working on his album. Releases _This Town_ and _Slow Hands_ while he’s working on it, just to give people a taste. He hears himself on the radio when he’s in the supermarket. The bored teenage girl at the checkout asks him what he’s so happy about, like she’s mad at him for it. “I love this song,” he tells her.

“He’s playing it at the Concert in the Park,” she informs him, “Grimmy interviewed him on the morning show.”

“That he is,” Niall says cheerfully, taking his groceries. “You should go.”

He runs into Louis and Liam at the Concert in the Park. They go on before him, so he’s too busy getting ready to catch their set, but they watch him from the side of stage and tell him how great his two songs were before moving swiftly on to show him photos of their babies. Apparently Liam knocked up his lady friend almost immediately, but he seems happy and that’s what counts.

Niall’s happy too. Really, genuinely happy.

He puts on shows before he releases the album so he can see people react when they hear the songs for the first time. He has his own band, great guys who all play their instruments better than he does. The theatres fill up. He loves it all – the voices singing along to Slow Hands, the quiet during Flicker, the knowledge that he’s influencing the way people feel, even if it’s just for an hour. He loves knowing that it’s him they’re here to listen to.

He does interview after interview and finds he actually mostly enjoys them, especially the Irish ones. They seem to love him back. He makes music videos and does television performances and photoshoots. But the best part is always performing.

When his album is released, he hears Harry on the radio. He’s talking to Grimmy, saying he’s proud. He sounds unbearably fond. A sharp pang of missing him runs through Niall, so painful he almost turns off the radio, but doesn’t because he wants to keep hearing Harry’s voice. As he listens, he’s suddenly aware that it’s Harry he misses. Just Harry. Not being in Harry’s band. Not standing beside Harry on stage. Not trying to write music that sounds like Harry instead of like himself. Not never getting to sing or always having to fade into the background and let someone else shine. The only thing he misses about Harry is Harry.

He sends Harry a text inviting him to his first arena show in Dublin. It’s sold out on the back of his album going to number one. Harry probably can’t come, but Niall thinks of it like a peace offering. Not that they’d really been fighting. Neither of them are really fighters. Harry’s a slither-outer, because he hates making people unhappy, and Niall’s never been great with conflict. It makes him tense. He’s only just learning that sometimes things don’t go away if you pretend they aren’t happening. But they haven’t been friendly either, so Niall sends his peace offering.

***

The Irish crowd love him. He makes a few jokes about being too small to see from the back, then gets right into the music. For an hour and a half, he’s so lost in it he forgets he invited Harry and Harry never replied. There is nothing but the music and the stage and the crowd. The atmosphere is electric. He can feel it making him more than he is. He’s singing better, playing better, feeling more alive. He plays his album and a couple of covers. Dredges up the courage to play the piano in front of thousands, talking himself down first because it’s better to be surprisingly good and humble than to be confident and surprisingly bad. He finishes up with a cover of _Where the Streets Have No Name_ , singing like even he didn’t know he could.

The audience goes off as he takes a bow and a photo with the band. He wishes he could hold onto this forever.

He has a shower to wash off the sweat before going out. There’s no way the night is over after a show like that. He and his band are about to light Dublin up. When he steps out of the bathroom, in clean jeans and a collared blue shirt, there’s someone in his dressing room.

“Hi Niall,” Harry says awkwardly, giving a weird little wave like he’s freshly in from outer space and not quite up to speed with human customs.

“Harry,” Niall feels his face break out in a smile as he does the weird little wave back. “You came!” He goes over and wraps Harry in a hug. A proper one, where he tucks his face into Harry’s neck and holds on. None of this shaking-hands-in-between, three second rule shit. Harry squeezes him so tight he’s a little concerned for his ribs.

“I missed you,” says Harry, as he lets go. His left hand stays on Niall’s shoulder, his right on Niall’s hip. “Shit, look at you now. You were amazing tonight. Best show I’ve ever been to.”

Niall laughs. “I’m glad you came.”

“Hey, Niall…” Harry starts, strangely hesitant.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry for how I… you know… I’m not very good at telling people stuff, but I want you to know it wasn’t because I don’t lo-care about you…”

Niall laughs quietly. “I think I get it now,” he says. “Setting me free, yeah?”

“Yeah,” replies Harry, and leans in to kiss him.

THE END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 


End file.
